


Take Comfort in Friendship

by ACatWhoWrites



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Childhood, Gen, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:49:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACatWhoWrites/pseuds/ACatWhoWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes teasing and jokes can be taken too far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Comfort in Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from prompt on what_the_fruk. Chibi Fruk, Francis is looking for Arthur and it gets dark, Arthur scares him and plays some pranks taking it too far, making Francis cry. Now, Arthur is in the dark with a sobbing Francis, and he can't get him to stop crying. So I basically want young Arthur trying to comfort young Francis.
> 
> Francis is about 10-11, and Arthur is around 6-7.

Summertime in the woods is the best time, in Arthur's humble opinion. It is warm day and night, so he can run around and play any time and not be chased inside by the cold or rain. It is also the season when Francis visited. Even though he was a few years older and much more effeminate, he made for good company most of the time. He has a way with words and could talk Arthur out of trouble, which is very convenient considering how often he gets caught chasing pigs or terrorizing the adults with rotten fruit catapulted from rooftops.

One evening, Arthur hides in the trees, crouching among the branches that make a fork in the tree. He waits until Francis meanders into view, innocently looking around for Arthur. When he's directly beneath Arthur's tree, the little Brit drops the handfuls of earthworms and dirt he had dug up from beneath a thorn bush. They cascade to Francis' head, wriggling on his hair and down his tunic. He screams and swats at the crummy worms, doing a bizarre dance in circles.

Arthur falls onto his back in a fit of giggles. “Arthur!” Francis cries in stressed frustration. He picks the rest of the debris off his clothing and shakes his hair once last time before storming away, casting a hurt glare over his shoulder that Arthur didn't catch because of his tears of mirth.

\- x -

Later, Arthur finds Francis sitting by a stream, soaking his feet in the cool water. He sneaks up behind Francis and stands sheepishly with his hands behind his back. “I wanted to apologise for earlier,” he said, clearing his throat.

Francis smiles kindly at him. “It is alright, Arthur.”

“No, it isn't! So I got you something.” The French boy's eyebrows rose, and Arthur moved his arms from behind his back, releasing the bullfrog on Francis' lap. He runs away to the sounds of Francis' frantic screeching and splashing as he falls into the water.

\- x -

The final straw came even later. Francis leans over the wooden railing to shake the kitchen scraps from a plate when his ankles are suddenly grabbed and pulled up. He pitches forward, flipping over the railing and landing on his butt in the mud. His forehead strikes the top railing with a solid THUD that makes Arthur cringe. 

Francis sits in the mud, stunned to silence, until he looks at his hands. Raw splinters stick out from one of his palms while his opposite wrist develops an ugly purple bruise from where it hit the edge of the trough. As tiny beads of blood squeeze from around the splinters, his head begins to pound, he feels the mucky mud seeping through his tunic and trousers, and, finally, searing tears well up in his eyes.

Arthur wants to do nothing more than run and hide in the trees, but his legs won't let him move. He never feels so guilty and scared as when he watches his friend miserably crawl between the wooden railing, sniffling and filthy. He doesn't even make it to the house, and he doesn't care. Francis just falls where he stands, legs out in front of him, hands palms-up on his lap, shoulders shaking, and sobs to the night sky.

“Francis...Francis, I'm sorry.” Arthur stands behind the boy, wringing his little hands in his cloak. “I-I really am sorry, Francis. It was just supposed to be a joke...” Francis can't respond. His cries dry his throat and make his nose run, but the tears and howls of pain won't stop.

Arthur crouches in the grass, pulls his hood over his head, and covers his ears.


End file.
